Six Minutes
by AlkalineTeegan
Summary: I was watching early season three the other day and this popped into my head. A missing scene from the basement that I sort of wish we'd seen.


**Six minutes**

Gibbs watched his agent set his empty glass on the step beside him. Tony was still except for the kneading of his fingers, and Gibbs sanded the boat but kept watch on those roving digits. The long fingers slid over each other, rubbing together like teenagers on a dance floor, wriggling and grinding to some manic, unheard rhythm. His right thumb paused to press into the soft juncture of left thumb and forefinger before the hands separated again, both writhing with Medusan motion.

Gibbs knew the man was never completely still—even if it was just a bounce on his toes, the tapping of a pen or this flicking of fingers, Tony was always in motion.

So when Gibbs had found him sentry-still, silent and staring out of the big windows of the squad room into the rain-soaked gathering darkness earlier that evening, Gibbs knew it was time for this talk. It had been long enough since Kate's death that Gibbs could now look at Tony and not see her blood on his plague-paled cheek, but he wasn't so sure that gory image wasn't exactly what DiNozzo was seeing as he stared more at his reflection than at the rain falling serenely outside.

Gibbs had approached him then, his eyes on Tony's static fingers hanging limply at his sides, and said, "Basement, 2100. A minute later and don't bother."

Tony had simply nodded once, showing a rare economy of movement that Gibbs always thought suited him much better than the boisterous antics. Gibbs had turned, but not before seeing what his eyes hadn't picked up on upon first seeing Tony playing statue: a muscle flexing in his jaw with slow, steady regularity.

No, Tony was never still.

Gibbs had known as he walked away that Tony's mind was probably racing over the origin of the odd order.

Much like it must be racing now as he continued his frenetic finger-flicking.

Gibbs got himself a refill and motioned his offer with the bottle, a little disappointed when Tony declined with a single shake of his head that made Gibbs rethink his earlier opinions on antics.

If a still Tony was unnerving earlier, this silent Tony was downright creepy.

But Gibbs was never one to give in to fears, and while he would have preferred that Tony—or himself—be blind-drunk for this conversation, he started it more or less stone-sober anyway.

"How are you doing, DiNozzo?"

He saw Tony open his mouth to respond like a living answering machine with an automated reply, and he held up a hand, shutting the younger man's mouth as firmly as if he had reached out and touched him.

"You say 'I'm fine' and I'll headslap you… with a two-by-four."

Tony grinned, but it was false and uneasy and so shiny-bright that Gibbs wanted to turn on some more lights in the dim basement to drown it out. But it was gone so quickly that Gibbs forgot all about being blinded and focused on the man behind the smile.

_Crap,_ Gibbs thought, seeing that Tony had gone both silent _and_ still. It made him question his decision to do this at all—but it also reinforced it in a way that rebar never could.

"No 'I'm fines,' no lies, no deflections, and no jokes," Gibbs said, turning his gaze back to the boat. "How are you doing?"

His tone more than made up for the seeming casual inattentiveness: DiNozzo wasn't stupid and he knew his boss was going easy on him by focusing his defense-stripping gaze elsewhere.

"Just to be clear," Tony said carefully, his tone reflecting his feeling that he was walking on thin ice that was creaking ominously, about to crack under his weight—under the weight of the past. "We are talking about Kate, right?"

Gibbs was shocked at how much hearing her name still hurt, and he kicked himself for it. He was no probie when it came to pain—or loss. But still he reacted in the only way he knew how.

"You have some other partner get murdered in front of you that I should know about?"

Gibbs gave Tony credit for not flinching, because he almost did so himself. And for not matching misguided sarcasm with retaliatory anger by tossing out some defensive cruelty in return.

Tony simply shook his head slowly and responded softly, "Nope. No need to check McGee for bullet holes in the morning."

Gibbs closed his eyes for a moment, feeling immediately contrite but not even remotely surprised that Tony had pulled out humor to mask the hurt.

It made him turn to Tony and narrow his eyes slightly as he said, "And none of that easy charm, silver tongue, highbeam smile or whatever it was that you used to walk circles around the agency shrink. Truth, DiNozzo. How are you doing?"

Tony realized it was the third time Gibbs had asked him and he should probably answer—considering the alternative probably involved loss of life or limb. He couldn't remember a time when Gibbs had asked him twice to do something. Gibbs didn't _ask_ anyway; he ordered.

And Tony didn't take offense to the threats, orders or sarcasm, because he knew what it was costing his boss to even have this conversation. He didn't dwell on the rush of pleasure he got from Gibbs going so far as to express concern for him—it was too new and intense, so he stored it away to the back of his mind where he could pull it out later when it had cooled and he could examine it without danger of third-degree emotional burns to his fascinated, vulnerable psyche.

Gibbs watched Tony withdraw into himself to think, knowing he was carefully mulling his words, and Gibbs hoped the combination of that mulling and the drink he'd had wouldn't intoxicate him into a prolonged silence. Gibbs was just starting to exhaust his already bereft stores of patience when Tony finally spoke.

"Six minutes."

Gibbs frowned, wondering if Tony had suddenly become a lightweight. But he simply waited, telling Tony without a word that he would continue to wait until he was ready.

"Six minutes," Tony repeated softly, "is as long as I've gone between waking up in the morning and remembering she's gone."

Tony's eyes were soft green ponds of anguish as he met Gibbs' gaze. And even though it hurt to see his suffering on full display, Gibbs stared back, knowing he was receiving a rare gift: a peek behind the mask, a glimpse of Tony unguarded.

Then Tony closed his eyes, breathing slowly, the care with which he simply pulled sawdusty air into his lungs reminding Gibbs of a time not too long ago when such an act was not so simple—nor so certain. When Tony opened his eyes again, the pain was nearly gone, as if the better part of it had rolled up and adhered to the backs of his lids—there but not there, not gone but simply put away into its proper place.

Tony watched Gibbs watching him and wondered if he had said the wrong thing. "I'm not saying I think about her _every_ six minutes," he added. "I'm finding that I'm going hours at a time during the day without thinking about her, longer when I'm not in the office. It's just that time right between waking up for the day and… _remembering_…"

He trailed off, and Gibbs let him. Gibbs also picked up on the "for the day" distinction and let him avoid the topic of nightmares, knowing as much from personal experience as from Tony's dark circles and tired eyes in the aftermath that the younger agent had struggled with them.

"I don't know if it makes sense to measure it," Tony said, not sure why he was continuing when Gibbs seemed appeased by his response. But the quiet understanding in Gibbs' eyes spurred him on. "And I don't know if six minutes is a good sign or a bad one. It seems like so much and not enough all at the same time. And some days it's six seconds, but I'm finding that more and more of the memories are good ones."

Gibbs didn't speak. He simply sanded, the rasp of paper on wood soothing in its calm rhythm.

Tony cracked a wry smile. "I guess I'll keep picking up the conversational slack."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "Like you've ever had a problem with that before," he said, but he was smiling slightly at the boat.

Tony's smile faded before returning, and while it wasn't his usual megawatt grin, it was definitely a start. "I'm just glad we have those good memories for when my six minutes are up… Or sixteen, or sixty. Or whatever it is on any given day."

Gibbs didn't miss that he said "we," and he turned his smile from the boat to his agent, confident that both would find themselves on course with time.

"Me too, Tony."


End file.
